“What is that… Paper wood?” Roy’s voice had echoed as they walked down the grandiose hallowed halls of the Department of Robot Sanctions, taking in the way the stained-glass windows made pragmatic use of the incoming sunlight without overly emphasizing the accomplishments of the otherwise elitist individuals therein, colorfully emblazoned.

“Hardly, Roy,” the robot had replied, its optical scanner plotting geometric measurements and comparisons to the grains of each, individual artesian slice of miter jointed wood as it placed its arm across his shoulders. “It’s Mahogany,” it then said, the most likely result its wood comparison calculations could convey. The robot then rolled its hand into a fist, “Hard,” it had said, subtly knocking on Roy’s Sublimity and Hope, &l...

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